


Training

by thedevilchicken



Category: Batgirl (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks it started as punishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amathela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amathela/gifts).



> This is "dirtybadwrong Bruce/Steph d/s fic" as requested by Zhailei for Yuletide 2013. Fairly graphically smutty with a smidgen of D/s but definitely dirtybadwrong, action mostly while Steph is Spoiler but narrated from after she's become Batgirl - hope you enjoy!

She thinks it started out as punishment. Well, no: it’s never exactly been punishment. She thinks it started out as some kind of lesson. 

She’d done something crazy, as if that were somehow new or out of character for her, only this time she’d managed to give Bruce a truly spectacular black eye in the process. Yes, she’d kicked some bad guy butt, but tripping Batman (especially as he’d subsequently collided with a brick wall, the hood of the Batmobile and then a patch of damp asphalt in rapid progression) had most definitely not been part of the plan. 

Of course, she hadn’t actually had a plan. Not much of one, at least; she’d always been more of a seat-of-the-pants kind of gal. And that, of course, was precisely the problem. 

The cowl hid Bruce’s face and the extent of his new bruise on the ride back to the cave. It really wasn’t unusual for him to drive in silence, not that she’d really spent all that much time with him by that point, but there was something different about it that night. Morning, really, she guesses, since it was coming up on 4am. His jaw was always set, like it was part of the costume or maybe it might spontaneously detach and fall off if he relaxed for a second, but right then it seemed stiffer and the way he gripped the wheel was almost enough to make her wince. He drove with a kind of deliberately crazy velocity that bordered on worrying rather than thrilling in spite of the control she knew he had. She’d screwed up. When he pulled up in the batcave and turned to her, the look he gave her tied her insides in knots. She’d really screwed up. 

“You need to learn to follow instructions,” he told her, coldly. At least, it would’ve been cold if she hadn’t known him just long enough by then to hear the faintest current of anger running through his words. Bruce had been annoyed by her hijinks before, irritated when she paid no attention or messed up his plans with aplomb, but she couldn’t remember him being outright angry with her before. She chewed on her bottom lip and followed him across the cave, almost scuffing her boots on the ground as she went, too. It was like she was six again and heading to the principal’s office. He had such a knack for making her feel like an incompetent ass. 

“Perhaps you need more training.”

She sighed. Then she looked up at him as he pulled down the cowl and thought better of her retort as she saw the way his left eye was swelling up. 

“Maybe I do,” she conceded, in a moment of weakness. Or maybe she just needed to stay the heck out of Batman’s way.

Bruce turned, detaching cape and cowl as he did so. “Are you expected at home?”

Steph frowned. “My mom’s working a double.”

Bruce nodded curtly as he started to make for the showers. “Then you’re going to detail the car before you leave.” He didn’t look back as he left. 

She did as he said, even if she still doesn’t know why. It took a couple of hours, cursing herself (and maybe him, too) under her breath the whole time, but by the time she was finished she could pretty much see her face in the finish - heck, the damn thing practically had new car smell when she was done. The batmobile’s kind of different now, she knows, all matte black and menacing, but at the time it was practically just a suped-up sports car like something out of a Bond movie. Batman was so cool back then, or maybe the idea of him was, maybe he had been before she’d known Bruce Wayne and gotten the real picture of how grim his life really was on a daily basis. You always knew when Bruce was being the billionaire playboy and when he was just being himself because real!Bruce didn’t know how to smile. Apparently money really couldn’t buy you happiness, but maybe the next best thing was a batmobile. 

She came back in the evening after school, once she’d given her mom the slip. She didn’t really expect him to say anything about the truly glorious wax job she’d given the car because that just wasn’t Bruce and according to Tim it never would be, but it still kind of stung when he just went about business as usual. Albeit with a pretty amazing shiner that even Alfred’s super secret magic medical skills hadn’t been able vanish completely. She wonders how he explained that one to the supermodels, but expects they never thought to ask. She supposes it made him look devil-may-care.

He had her inventory the medical bay, clipboard in hand, muttering obscenities under her breath as she went through the cabinets. He had her restock the utility belts - all the utility belts, his and Tim’s and every spare they had in the place. He had her oil door hinges and refuel the car and help Alfred to patch suits, which was weirdly educational if simultaneously hideously tedious. Then they went out, after he’d made her solemnly swear that she’d do everything, everything, down to the most minute of possible details, that he told her to do. It grated on her that she had to do it, mostly because she hated being told what to do in an almost violent kind of way, but she swore. More importantly, she actually meant it.

And actually, the night went much more smoothly for it. Not that it made her feel any better about Spoiler suddenly being Batman’s faithful sidekick in Robin's temporary absence.

She went back the next night, and the night after that. There was more to do, of course, but after three nights it kind of seemed like he was inventing half of it, making the behind-the-scenes of vigilantism into annoying busy work for his new intern. A couple of times she nearly called him on it, almost had the words in her mouth, but she bit her tongue when she saw the bruise on his face; Alfred had been reassuring when she’d spoken to him but there was something about watching him prod at Bruce’s face to check his cheekbone for breaks that had tugged on a corresponding something in her head. Sure, it wasn’t like he’d never had a black eye before, but if she’d screwed up any worse then she could’ve gotten him killed. He couldn’t trust her. As much as she wanted to stomp her feet, cuss him out for treating her like the resident handywoman and then storm out in a huff, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Five nights checking tyre pressures and redoing all her basic field medical training turned into six, turned into a full week. Tim was away somewhere doing something hush-hush with his super-friends and she was pretty sure that even if they were just trading the latest in teen superhero fashion tips, it was vastly, overwhelmingly more entertaining than repairing comm units and learning how to use a portable defibrillator. Tim gave her a look over the patchy commlink like she’d completely lost it when she told him she was working with Bruce, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him she was pretty lousy at it. Worst of all, she couldn’t even summon the enthusiasm to complain about it all - she’d kind of gotten herself into it, after all. She ended the conversation with a half-hearted smile and went back to servicing batcomputer peripherals, cleaning out fluff and accumulated ick like an unpaid computer tech of the very lowest order.

It was night eight that was different. It was a weekend and she’d told her mom she was staying over at a friend’s place - of course, her mom would be at the hospital all night so that wasn’t really an issue - but it was kind of nice to know there wouldn’t be some kind of lecture waiting if she tried to sneak in at 5am and found her mom waiting for her over coffee with a disapproving frown. She helped Alfred with dinner, not because she was asked but because she kind of liked helping him, even if she always got the feeling that her idea of “help” was really Alfred’s idea of “well-intentioned obstacle.” Bruce was nowhere to be found so they ate in the kitchen with Barbara and Cass, who cleared out soon after and were particularly tight-lipped about the case they were teaming up on at the time. Steph couldn’t help but feel left out of their little Batgirl Club, which she guesses is sort of ironic at this point. 

Then, after a couple of hours learning how to field dress a gunshot wound and effectively sharpen a set of distressingly expensive throwing knives, Bruce swooped in as if from nowhere and they went out into the city. The drive there was significantly more pleasant than the drive back. 

She really wasn’t sure how she’d managed to do it, but it all started with frowning when Bruce told her to stay behind him. The next thing she knew, she was on fire. Quite literally, in the flaming from the arms sense, as some gigantic jerk had sprayed them both with a flamethrower - apparently frowning at Bruce’s commands had led pretty quickly to disobeying Bruce’s orders had led to slipping into another part of the building had led to Bruce getting there just a second too late to stop her getting accelerant sprayed across her chest. She panicked for a second, burning, before Bruce pretty much flung her to the ground and away from the next stream of fire; she dropped and rolled and the fire miraculously went out, and ten seconds later it was over; the bad guy was tied up in knots and dangling from an exposed overhead beam, and Bruce was dragging her out of there just as the cops arrived. 

It was a miracle she wasn’t hurt, and she knew it. The cabin of the batmobile smelled like burned fabric and singed hair, her arms felt a bit tender to the touch, but the flame-retardant material of her suit had apparently done its job just long enough to keep her from needing a quick trip to the hospital before Bruce had shoved her down. He’d saved her life. She really wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

She followed him out of the car and into the medical bay in silence. She took off what she could - boots and cloak and gloves - and then stood by the cot, trying not to hang her head as Bruce took out a scalpel and opened up her costume down each of its half-melted seams. He was just as precise as he always was but she knew how sharp the blade was; she kept still, biting the inside of her cheek and stoically resisting the urge to act out until he pulled away the last wreck of a section and tossed it into the trash. 

“When I said you needed to follow orders, I meant it.”

She jammed her fingernails into her palms and nodded stiffly. “I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” He stepped away to put down the scalpel, leaving her standing there in her next-to-least attractive underwear on the freezing concrete floor, grateful at least that her socks hadn’t melted. “If you can’t do as you’re told, or at least stay aware of your surroundings, you have no place being out there.”

Her fists tightened. Her teeth clenched. She wanted to hit him, but had the distinct impression that that just wasn’t going to solve anything; it certainly wouldn’t do anything to improve the situation, since he’d just pulled her out of a burning building (mostly) unscathed. And he usually had that annoying ability to dodge. 

“I know.”

“Get down on your knees.” 

She met his gaze, frowning. “Do you seriously--”

“On your knees.”

She hesitated, not entirely sure how to react to that particular command. She was mostly used to the orders now, even if she occasionally had trouble following them, but there was something different about this, something that made her stomach flutter oddly and her pulse quicken with something that was equal parts rage and shame and dismay. Bruce put his hands on his hips. Steph sank down awkwardly to her knees and looked away as her cheeks flushed hot. She supposed she should have felt humiliated. She really just felt disappointed in herself.

Bruce turned. “Next time, don’t hesitate,” he told her, and he walked away. 

She thought about staying away, but that would have been pretty much admitting defeat and that really didn’t sit well with her. The last thing she was was a quitter, and she guesses now that the first thing she is is still stubborn, just like then. So she turned up as normal and Bruce acted just like normal and there was a brand new Spoiler suit that was just like the melted one only not so melted waiting for her. She suspected Alfred had been involved, or maybe Bruce had had it lying around for months just in case. That just in case could’ve been sort of upsetting had she thought about it, but she completely ignored the question and wandered into the gym for a quick workout. Bruce was already in there, however, and had spotted her before she’d had the time to escape. Sometimes she really wished he weren’t so damn observant. 

The thing was, it was surprisingly not awkward. They sparred for a while and Bruce (surprisingly) chose not to kick her butt too hard. She used the showers in the cave, feeling pleasantly buzzed from the pre-patrol workout, and as she stepped out wrapped in a particularly fluffy white towel (Batman always had the nicest things), Bruce was there, sitting on a bench reading through what looked like a police file, possibly waiting. The pleasant buzz didn’t last much longer after that. 

“Get down on your knees,” he said, his expression just as unreadable as the tone of his voice. And she did it, despite the damp tiles beneath her, despite the awkward way the towel draped as she knelt. She could’ve kicked herself for doing it, but she didn’t hesitate. 

Bruce watched her for a moment and then stood. It was ridiculous to think it but he was so tall from where she was kneeling, imposing, somehow even more so in his track pants and undershirt rather than the batsuit, which was really freaking odd to realise. She looked away, one hand keeping her towel in line somewhat awkwardly against her damp skin. 

“Good,” he said. “Like that, every time.” And he walked away. 

It was the same the next night, and the night after that, and every night until Tim came home. He had her kneel on a rooftop dressed as Spoiler, in the cave out by the batmobile, in the kitchen when Alfred was out picking up groceries. She did it every time, without question, not sure whether she should hate herself for it, hate Bruce or both of them. Then Tim was back and she thought maybe it would stop but whenever they met there was a moment when he’d look at her just so and suddenly she understood that he didn’t have to say a word anymore, and she didn’t have to kneel. He’d trained her. She did as he said. She still remembers how that felt.

It went on for months. She wondered sometimes when she was with Tim whether Bruce had approached training like this with him, too, with Dick or maybe Jason, but she suspected he hadn’t. She thinks now that this was just for her, maybe because he thought she was too reckless, because she needed control or needed controlling. Jason needed it more than she did, she thinks, but it wasn’t like it was something she could discuss with Tim and she balked at the thought of bringing it up with Bruce. And pretty soon it wasn’t even like she thought about it all that often, it wasn’t something that preyed on her mind because it just kind of… was. She was better for it. She hadn’t had nearly so many dramatic brushes with death since it had started. 

Then Tim was away again. She hadn’t really seen Bruce all that often out of costume for a couple of months because heck, it wasn’t like she really had a reason to; she mostly kept to herself in terms of the batfamily and company, with the obvious exception of Tim and occasionally Cass when she was available. She hadn’t thought that Tim’s quick message about some sort of junior-justice-related catastrophe (that he had totally under control, he assured her, which wasn’t at all reassuring) meant that she’d be spending time with Bruce. Apparently, she’d been wrong. 

She did something stupid, again, pretty much like always but when it was just her it was really only her own life she was risking and hey, she’d always come out of it intact somehow. It was kind of crappy to screw up with Batman watching, though, because really it just cemented the fact that he’d pretty much been right over the whole Robin thing, though she really, really hated to admit it. Not that she thinks even now that he went about it in close to the right way, or even a particularly sane way. Bruce has never been good at relationships with his sidekicks. It was different as Spoiler, though, ‘cause it was somehow less hero-and-sidekick and more senior-and-junior-hero-teamup. Not that it ever really felt like a teamup where Batman was concerned, but she thinks maybe it looked that way from the outside. 

It was some immense asshattery on the part of the Scarecrow that led to it, so really it wasn’t her fault. New drug, of course, ridiculous delivery system, yadda yadda - Gotham was so predictable sometimes. She tripped the tripwire in his hideout and got showered in the stuff; the superteam of Bruce and Alfred and Leslie had already come up with some handy intravenous jab to knock it out of commission but the sneaky little tick-like capsules would get pretty much everywhere and cling to whatever surface they could find, just hanging out waiting for the next victim to affect. Bruce gave her the irked-in-silence treatment on the way back to the cave after he’d covered her in something oddly reminiscent of saran wrap to keep the car interior mostly clean. Yes, so she’d got a grappling hook around the Scarecrow’s ankles and stopped him escaping through the nearest window while his flunkies all beat on Batman, but overall it really hadn’t been her finest moment. She still harbours a near-irrational hatred of tripwires. 

Bruce cut off the wrap and hosed her down with something that smelled distinctly unpleasant that dripped off her costume all the way to the showers. The costume went into a big bag and Bruce disposed of it while she showered the foul-smelling ick off her skin. Then the real fun began. 

Wrapped in her towel, she wound up lying on the bed in the medical bay being poked and prodded just in case one of those freaky little pods of brain-eating hallucinogen had made its way under her suit and down to her skin. It sounded pretty unlikely but as Bruce was combing through her hair she found one between her fingers. Disposal was quick but involved more of the foul-smelling ick of which Bruce seemed so very fond. There was another behind her ear and two stuck in her hair. One on the back of her thigh - she dreaded to think how many had been clinging to her costume if she was this bad underneath it. Two on the sole of her damn foot and then, of course, she had to lose the towel. 

It wasn’t like there’d never been anyone who’d seen her naked. She supposed her parents must have at some point, though that was completely different… Doctors, of course, and Cass had walked in on her in the shower a couple of times, which was still kind of different, mostly because Cass was Cass and, well, it wasn’t like she really understood all of the social niceties (or particularly wanted to) most of the time. A couple of boyfriends, and Tim - okay, that was really different ‘cause comparing Tim and Bruce and the extent of her nakedness was not a route she really wanted to travel at that particular moment. 

She grimaced into the cot as Bruce’s gloved fingers moved over her shoulder blades and down her back, not that it hurt but jeez, why’d she have to trigger that freaking boobytrap? It was like the universe was wagging its finger and telling her she’d brought all of this on herself, which she guesses now that she had. Besides, it really had to be weird for him too, searching for creepy little drug pods in her buttcrack. Not that that stopped her from blushing like a schoolgirl (which she supposes she technically still was, no matter how close graduation was looming) as she turned over and fought the urge to cover herself up. 

Maybe she should’ve been humiliated. Maybe she should’ve been ashamed. She kind of wished she were, wishes now that she had been, lying there with her fingers twisted into the starchy sheet as Bruce’s hands moved over her breasts, found another of the little creeps in her navel and then moved down. She really should’ve been mortified, she thought, but the real problem was that she wasn’t. As Bruce’s hands moved over her thighs, parted them slightly, as his fingers checked her pubic hair, she should’ve rued every second. As his gloved thumbs parted her labia majora, one finger teasing back the hood of her clitoris, she should have been retracing her steps, making sure she’d never trip another damn tripwire again. His fingers parted her labia minora; one fingertip slipped an inch or two inside her, probing for the pesky pods. Her pulse was racing. She felt herself tighten around Bruce’s finger, hips tilting against her will. She was so wet. 

He stopped then, and he stepped back. Steph took a shaky breath, bewildered by what she felt, her thighs still spread. 

“We’re done,” he said, stepping back again, looking away as he peeled off his gloves and moved to dispose of them. “You can get down.”

It wasn’t what he meant, she was pretty sure, is still pretty sure, and she still has no idea why she did it, but the next thing she knew she’d hoisted herself up off of the rather uncomfortable cot and then sunk down to her knees on the tiles. He looked at her. She looked at him. 

She’s not clear on why what happened next happened next, at least not totally. She doesn’t recall whether he told her to do it or if she just took it upon herself but she reached out and she curled her hand around to the back of his knee; all she really remembers is how nervous she felt, how her insides fluttered, how she almost ached between her thighs, how she had a feeling that it was a really, really bad idea but did it anyway. The expression on his face didn’t change but he’d trained her well: his pupils were crazy wide and he’d set his jaw. The steadiness of his breath was a fraction too pronounced to be natural. She thought maybe she’d gone too far. 

And since she’d already gone too far, she went further. Her palm skated up over the back of Bruce’s thigh and around over his hip, fingertips skimming the waistband of his track pants. Her hand came down and pressed lightly between his thighs. A little jolt went right through her as she realised he was half-hard underneath. He wanted it, too. 

He left, which really hadn’t been how she’d thought he’d react. Well, no, she guessed she’d half expected it considering who it was, since Bruce had never really been the most predictable of people. Sure, there were certain things you could pretty much always say would be true about him, like how much he cared about Alfred and how he’d go to some pretty impressive lengths in name of justice, but personally speaking Steph hadn’t a clue about non-bat Bruce. She’d kind of expected there was no non-bat Bruce, in that creepy way where Tim sometimes talked about him like Bruce was the mask and not the other way around, but were that the case it would have all been so much simpler. Somehow it was easier to deal with Batman than Bruce Wayne. She still thinks there’s a difference; she’s just not sure what that difference is, where exactly the two divide. 

She left. She wasn’t sure how to feel, which was really absolutely fine; she went home and she slept and she didn’t dream at all. Her mom made waffles in the morning before she hurried off to work and Steph watched crappy daytime TV all day ‘cause somehow the weekend had completely sneaked up on her. She talked to Tim for five minutes over a shady commlink and didn’t even think about what had happened in the cave. She was fine. Especially since there was no way she was seeing Bruce that night. 

And then she did, of course. She got stir-crazy around 1am and the next thing she knew she’d walked into the middle of Batman’s gun-running investigation. To her credit, she actually did pitch in and help once she’d realised what she’d done; no one was really scared of Spoiler, if they even knew who in the name of Bob Spoiler actually was, but she made a mighty fine diversion. She kept out of the way as the cops came in, and then Bruce drove her home. Okay, he drove her to an alley a block and a half away from home, but that was something. 

Her mom was still out but she could hear the neighbours’ TV as Batman slipped through the window behind her. His presence there was unexpected and she almost told him to leave, but there was something in that moment that made her bite it back. He lurked in the shadows in the corner of her room like some kind of partially-benevolent monster from her closet and she ignored him completely as she started to pull off her suit piece by piece. She folded it all with a whole heck of a lot more care than she’d ever done before and then put it away at the back of her closet, neat and tidy. She made herself take her time, though she could practically feel his eyes on her the whole time. And then, in just a slightly beaten up sports bra and short-shorts, she went down to her knees on the rug. 

He stepped forward out of the corner of the room; she’d drawn the blinds but he kept the cowl in place as he came a stop just within arm’s length. She reached back, unhooked her bra, pulled it off and tossed it over her shoulder where it clattered against something, not that she particularly cared what it was in that moment. She couldn’t for the life of her fathom why she was doing what she was doing, but apparently insanity wasn’t going to stop her. 

He left, of course, and ten second later it was just as if he’d never been there. Steph sighed and flopped into bed, almost convinced she’d imagined it except she was pretty sure she wasn’t actually hallucinating, as weird as the whole situation was. After all, they’d gotten all of the Scarecrow’s weird drugs off of her. She fell asleep just before dawn, one hand still between her thighs.

It was a strange month after that. Tim was back for parts of it and everything seemed fine, but Bruce was away, something about the Justice League and no doubt he was off saving the world. She spent some time with Cass and the Birds of Prey, having a ton of fun though she was pretty sure those guys were never really going to accept her, at least not until she’d completely proven herself, but she was confident she’d get there. She’s there now, so it turns out she was right all along, which is kind of reassuring. She did some school work and then suddenly school was over, really over, over forever if she wanted it to be. She started thinking about college, and her mom liked the idea, though that struck her as just about the weirdest thing she’d considered in months. Which, all things considered, was saying quite a lot. 

Tim had a case and Steph and Cass came in on it; everything worked out well and they had a sort of perverse amount of fun with their next-gen ass-kicking. In fact, by the end of it, she’d almost have said she’d forgotten about all the weirdness with Bruce - she felt kind of silly about it, but she could live with silly. The only real problem was what she had in her head in the hours before dawn, ‘cause she was pretty sure it should’ve been Tim and not… well, something else entirely, darker and a good bit more dangerous. But really, that stuff didn’t count, not really. She loved Tim. And everyone has a favourite bedtime fantasy, that's just the way things work.

But, of course, inevitably, three weeks later, Bruce was back. They knew because there he was on television, smiling and waving at a bunch of eager photographers at some Gotham charity gala or other. It was always really, really freaking weird seeing Bruce like that ‘cause she wasn’t sure she’d even once seen him smile like that in person. And she really couldn’t help it; a couple of nights later, when she found out Tim was going to be chasing up a lead most of the night and Cass was with the Birds of Prey, she found herself walking into the cave. 

She was naked when he found her. He came in around 2am, probably just for a little surveillance or repairs or extra equipment or something like that, so he was still in the suit when he stepped into the medical bay and found her curled up on the cot under a blanket with a pile of manga she’d loaned from the library, using a surgical light as a reading lamp. He stopped in the doorway just like he had no idea how to proceed and she set her book down on the top of the pile on the table next to her, pushed it away; the handy little wheels scooted it over into a worktop where the pile toppled and a couple of books hit the floor. She guessed she knew she shouldn’t, but she pulled back the blanket. Nude, she stepped from the cot, and she lowered herself down to her knees on the unpleasantly hard, chilly floor.

He looked at her. She looked at him. The moment seemed to stretch on and on but then two quick but measured strides and he was in front of her; he stooped and clasped her by the shoulders, not quite forcing her back up to her feet, like this was just as bad an idea as she guessed she knew it was and he was going to send her away. But then three seconds later she was pushed up face first against the nearest wall, cold tiles against her bare skin, the length of Bruce’s body pressing her there so she could barely move at all. His right arm was the only thing between her and the tiles, gauntlet almost painful against her hip, his hand pushed down between her thighs. Gloved fingers parted her lips and rested over her clit. She gasped. 

“Push against it,” he told her, his breath harsh, right by her ear. The presence of him was stifling but sort of heady and really, how was it possible to say no to that? She shifted her hips, her clitoris rubbing against his fingers, and she shivered. 

It didn’t take long. Five minutes and she was a trembling, breathy mess and then he let her go, still resting against the tiles; his cape flicked against her calves as he turned and then he was gone. All she could do was dress and leave, too.

She did it again the next night, and the night after that. She was pushing her luck to the limit, she knew, since the cave wasn’t exactly a private place, but somehow it worked out anyway. She started to get fond of the chill of tile against her bare skin, the pressure of his body against her almost heavy enough to hurt, the texture of the fingers of his gloves. She could’ve hated herself for it so easily but there he was, right there with her. Bruce didn’t make mistakes. At least not often. She tried not to linger on how spectacular his few mistakes always turned out to be.

The fourth night was different, but she wasn’t sure why she’d wanted it that way. She snuck in before dawn and curled up in the chair at the computer, slogging through some awful psychology textbook she figured might be useful for college if she ever decided to go, blanket tucked up around her. He came in forty minutes later, seeming unsurprised by her presence as he strode over; she dropped the blanket and stood, and knelt. 

He left her there, kneeling, and took a seat at the computer. He worked for over an hour, paying her not the slightest little bit of attention, and had it not been for the fact that she’d strategically placed herself on the blanket and not on the concrete in the first place, Steph had a feeling she’d have been distinctly lacking in enthusiasm. 

It was past dawn when he finally turned away from the computer and looked down at her from his desk chair, still disconcertingly in costume. 

“Use your hand,” he told her, and she could feel her cheeks flush hotly. But she didn’t hesitate, just trailed one hand down over her stomach as she shuffled her thighs apart and tried to pretend she wasn’t being watched for each and every second of the ten minutes it took for her to finish. Part of her wanted to hit him as he walked away after; mostly, she just wanted. 

It was the same the next night, and the next. She’d find herself blushing in the day when she was having lunch with Cass or catching a movie with Tim and an image would just spring into her mind, then she’d wind up back in the cave in the wee small hours, watching Bruce work on the computer while kneeling there naked. It was actually kind of interesting watching Bruce work, she had to grudgingly admit - the way his mind works is pretty strange even now but made even less sense to her then as he jumped from one thing to another at breakneck pace, making leaps that completely defied all logic. Of course, Logic of Steph often hadn’t really been Earth logic, and Bruce wasn’t exactly “normal,” so the disconnect was pretty much to be expected. 

A week away after that. Bruce and Tim were in London doing something super-secret with Knight and Squire, and Steph spent some time teaming up with Huntress, which was kind of a kick with the change of pace - Huntress was so different to Batman and company. Tim stayed on in the UK and Bruce came back, Huntress’s operation came to a close a couple of days after that, and Steph found herself heading straight for the cave once they’d said their farewells. 

Bruce was already there. She was almost disappointed, since she’d been planning on occupying his seat in her birthday suit, and almost left the way she’d come; of course, Bruce already knew she was there so pretending she wasn’t was kind of lacking in point. She went over, and she undressed. She did it slowly, folding each piece of her suit as she removed it, while Bruce tapped away at the keyboard beside her. Then she knelt, cursing herself for not fetching her trusty knee-protecting blanket before she’d started. 

Fortunately, Bruce didn’t keep her waiting for long. He stood and he encouraged her to her feet, hands at her shoulders, standing almost too close, then he moved in a swirl of heavy cape and pushed her down over the console. He nudged her thighs apart with a knee, one hand planted firmly between her shoulder blades to keep her down there, bent over the keyboard. His free hand trailed down over the length of her spine and then he shifted both hands away for a moment; they came back warm, the gauntlets tossed into the chair. 

Steph shivered. She hadn’t been expecting his bare skin, even just his hands, and this was new, new was weird, new was… well, new was pretty freaking exciting and she hated that it was, even as Bruce’s hand went up to the space just below her neck, as the other slipped around her hip and over her stomach, one fingertip tracing the contour of where her labia met without actually dipping between. She pushed the files aside on the console and pillowed her head on her arms. Bruce’s fingertip slipped between her lips and teased at her clit for a moment, making her shiver against him as he held her down. She parted her legs a little more, rocking her hips against his fingertip, letting it slide against her clitoris, making her stomach flutter and tighten. Then he shifted, his hand dipped down, and his finger pushed inside her, slow but firm, right up to the knuckle. She squeezed around it, pushed down, bit down on her lip to keep from making a sound. 

He let her rock against his hand for a moment before a second finger pushed in alongside the first; she arched her back as she pushed against them, not caring how it looked, not caring what he thought as she writhed against his fingers, pushing them in as deep as they’d go, pulling away to the tips just to push them back in again a second later. He kept still, his other hand still there at the back of her neck, planted between her shoulders, holding her roughly in place. But then he moved, pulled both hands away, took a step back; she didn’t move, just stayed there with her legs spread, head down, exposed. 

She thought he was going to leave, as usual. She remembers sighing into her arms and thinking she’d end up back home in bed with a hand between her thighs, trying not to get herself off just thinking about how he’d touched her then left her like that, like the idea of him obviously knowing what she wanted, knowing he wouldn’t give it to her and teasing her anyway wasn’t somehow sexy as heck. She remembers wondering if she could persuade Tim to get into this with her instead of Bruce so maybe she could exercise her new-found kinks in a healthier setting. And she remembers how her breath caught as Bruce’s hands came back to her hips. She hadn’t expected it at all. 

He pushed into her. It was different than his bare fingers this time, she wondered if he’d found some sort of object to fuck her with instead and she hated that the thought was so damn hot, wondered if he’d put on his gauntlets or something because it felt thicker, she felt fuller, then he bottomed out, his bare thighs pushed up against hers, and she realised with a jolt that his cock was inside her. She felt dizzy as she pushed back against him, moaning into her arms as she squeezed around the length of him. He shifted his hips, pulled out almost completely and thrust back in. She was having sex with Bruce. Full-blown penetrative sex, with Bruce. It was so hot and she wanted it so damn much she felt dizzy. 

He had scary control, she realised, even in this. His thrusts were hard but measured, his hands at her hips were tight but not bruising. Even when he leaned forward, slipped one hand down between her thighs and rubbed at her clit, he seemed to know what he was doing, seemed in control. He made her come while he was inside her; she gasped, light-headed as she bucked her hips against him, pushing him in deep as she pulled tight around him. A few more thrusts of his own and he pulled out, jerked himself roughly and came over her lower back rather than inside of her. 

He paused there for a couple of minutes, his slick skin against her as she felt her muscles tremble slightly, the cool of the cave setting in. He cleaned her up quickly. And then he left, without a single word; she left not long after, unsteady, not quite sure she could believe what had just happened.

She wasn’t sure if it would happen again after that, but it did. He stepped into the showers right after her the next night and took her against the wall, under the spray, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. He had her kneel the night after that, on the blanket on the floor, and he took her from behind, skin slapping loud against skin. He fucked her against a wall in an alley in the pouring rain, fingered her till she came in the gym, had her ride him in the driver's side of the batmobile when they came in one night. He drove her home and they did it on her bedroom floor - she had rug burns for a week and could only come up with an embarrassingly lame excuse when asked about it. She promised herself she'd stop; that same night, he rubbed his cock against her clit until she came, shivering, rapt, gasping.

She hated that she wanted this. She hated that he was so cool about it, that he could walk away afterwards as if nothing had happened at all, was never sure how he could live with himself considering what they were doing. She hated that she didn’t want to stop, hated that he didn't stop, then hated that it did stop when she had to go away. She missed his hands on her, his weight against her, the length of him inside her. She missed Tim bitterly, she missed her friends so much it hurt, but in the night in her bed it was Bruce she was thinking of, every time.

A couple of months passed, three, six, nine. She came back, at last. It was weird being back in Gotham and it was weird Bruce being gone, definitely weird not seeing Tim but he was such a headcase searching for Bruce and so much had happened with her that really it was better the way it was. Things changed. She changed. Cass took off the Batgirl suit one night and passed it over; there were some teething troubles but Barbara really helped. She grew into it, now she really feels like it's hers. She even enrolled in college, took a couple of classes, started to learn some of the crazy technogeek stuff that Barbara knew though frankly her thing is still substantially more fist-in-face than softly-soflty in the migraine-inducing glow of Oracle’s many monitors. 

Bruce has come back, of course, just like Tim said he would. She supposed she’d have to meet him at some point, but she's surprised herself for a while by not seeking it out, even when Damian bugs her to at least show her face - she figures she must really be lacking in proper etiquette if Damian Wayne of all people is getting on her case about it, but she stoically, resolutely hasn’t gone there, not as Stephanie, definitely not as Batgirl. After all, she’d only just got Dick-as-Batman to accept her as Cassandra’s successor before Bruce made his miraculous reappearance and she really just has not felt like trying to convince Bruce that she's right for the job even if she is and everyone else knows it. She doesn’t exactly have great memories of her Robin suit, after all. 

Things were fine, she thinks. She was fine. She is fine. She has friends at school and she has Barbara, Damian isn’t always a total tool and when Huntress came to town a couple of weeks ago it was actually kind of fun to show up in her new suit to say hi. She and Tim sometimes talk, as friends. She’s doing well in class. Her mom miraculously still hasn’t found out about the new super-secret identity and she hasn’t almost died in almost two months. Her life is lining up nicely for the first time in a long time. Which is, of course, precisely the happy moment that she’s found herself heading to the batcave like a total lunatic. She's always had a gift for ruining a good thing.

She has no idea why she’s there. She’s in costume, of course, black and purple with blonde hair streaming behind her, like Spoiler met Babs-as-Batgirl and had a particularly dashing lovechild. She slips past the batmobile, now back in car form rather than Dick’s bemusing hoverthing that sort of made her brain ache just looking at it, every time. And there he is, sitting in the chair by the computer like he never went away, like there’s nothing strange about this at all. It's like nothing's changed. Almost.

“Bruce.” 

She barely recognises her own voice as it echoes in the cave. Her cowl feels too tight; she gives it a surreptitious tug that has the happy side-effect of disconnecting her comms; she has a feeling this is something Barbara really doesn’t need to be privy to. Hopefully she’s not watching her vitals right now, ‘cause she's pretty sure they'd give it all away. She's more excited than nervous, but it's the kind of excitement she'd prefer Babs didn't witness. Especially not as her tracker no doubt shows rather clearly that she's in the middle of the cave, with Bruce.

He stands, and the way he stands is stiffer, like he’s older just the way she is, now that they’ve both come back from the dead. He turns to her. It’s so easy to tell that the guy in the suit is the guy that was in the suit way back before the whole “Batman’s Dead!” fiasco; he’s not only taller, it’s not just the heft of him, but the way he stands says it just as clearly as anything else could. It’s who he is. Even at his best, Dick was only really ever acting the part; maybe he would’ve grown into it in the end, but she hopes they’ll never have to find out. He’s too sunny for the cowl. He’s too nice. Batman really shouldn't be nice, and she's glad Dick didn't have to change.

“Stephanie,” he says. And then after a considered pause, “On your knees.”

She actually considers it for a moment, all those memories of all those nights and all her fantasies since then suddenly so very vivid in her mind, making her flush behind her cowl. She wants him, just like she always did. But then she clasps her hands behind her back, the motion bringing her straighter, taller. Something inside her unfurls. She's grown up, she realises. She knows what to do.

“No,” she tells him. “Why don’t you.”

There's a moment’s taut silence while Bruce does something that’s almost hesitation. And then, as Steph’s pulse begins to race and she almost regrets it, he comes down to his knees on the floor of the cave. He sits back on his heels and he looks up at her; just for an instant it’s like she’s given him some kind of absolution she’s never known he felt he needed. Maybe he was always as conflicted as she was. Maybe he's hated himself for wanting it just as much as she has. Maybe, just maybe, he’s human after all. 

He pulls off his gauntlets, pulls down the cowl. That odd instant passes and if she didn’t know better she’d swear just the barest hint of a smile is playing at the corners of Bruce’s lips. The knots in her stomach tell her Bruce Wayne on his knees for her is just about the sexiest thing she’s ever seen. 

“What now?” he asks, no urgency to the question, no sign that he intends to move, or leave, go back on this at all. He really wants to know, and it's really up to her. It's exhilarating. She has so many ideas. She's imagined this often enough.

“Next time, don’t hesitate,” she says, and she smiles as she steps toward him. 

She has no idea what’s next, if she's honest, but the possibilities flood her all at once. As she tangles her fingers in his hair, as he looks up at her from his knees, she has a feeling she’ll have fun finding out.


End file.
